It was two years before I had disentangled all the threads and marshalled all my evidence and laid the case before the governor. The governor looked the papers over carefully, and then said:
"If I did all my work as thoroughly as this has been done I should not be criticised as I am now. What would you like me to do for these boys?"
Making one bold dash for what I wanted I answered: "I should like you to give me two pardons that I can take to the boys to-morrow."
The governor rang for his secretary, to whom he said: "Make out two pardons for these Polish boys." And ten minutes later, with the two pardons in my hand, I left the governor's office. And so it came to pass that I was indebted to Dick Mallory for one of the very happiest hours of my life.
When I reached the prison next day the good news had preceded me. One of the officers met me at the door and clasped both my hands in welcome, saying:
"There isn't an officer or a convict in this prison who will not rejoice in the freedom of those boys, and every convict will know of it."
As for the Polish boys themselves, the blond, a dear boy, was expecting good news; but the black velvet eyes of the dark one were bewildered by the unbelievable good fortune. I stood at the door and shook hands with them as they entered into freedom, and afterward received letters from both giving the details of their homecoming. And so the purpose of Mallory was accomplished.
These are but few of the many who owed a debt of gratitude to this man. Only last year a man now dying in England, in one of his letters to me, referred gratefully to assistance given him by Mallory on his release from prison many years ago. Mallory's letters are all the record of a helping hand. Through them all runs the silver thread of human kindness, the traces of benefits conferred and efforts made on behalf of others.
And what of Dick Mallory's own life after his release from prison? He had always lacked faith in himself and in his future, and now the current of existence seemed set against him. He was thirty-two years old and more than half his life had been spent in confinement, under restraint. In his ambition to earn money for himself while working on prison contracts, he had drawn too heavily on both physical and nervous resources. In his own words: "I did not realize at all the physical condition I was in. If I could only have gone to some place where I could have recuperated under medical attention! But no! I only wanted to get to work. All I knew was work."
The hard times of '93 came on, a man had to take what work he could get, and Mallory could not do the work that came in his way. His mother died and the home was broken up. He again resorted to the sociability of the saloon, and with the renewal of old associations and under the influences of stimulants the reckless lawlessness of his boyhood again broke out into some action that resulted in a term in another prison.